


Behind the mask

by rustypeopleskillz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, I've never had a panic attack sorry if I wrote it wrong, M/M, Panic Attack, Pre-Slash, spoilers for 2.12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustypeopleskillz/pseuds/rustypeopleskillz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People think Stiles is happy. They're wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the mask

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote Teen Wolf fic! OMG. This is actually the third (fourth) fic-like thing I've written since I started watching that damn show (ILU, never change) but this is the first one that's a) longer than 60 words, and b) has some sort of plot-like element. Ish.
> 
> Betaed by the fantastic asher_k. Crossposted on my [LJ](http://wolfrider89.livejournal.com/89803.html).

 

 

The thing is, people think Stiles is happy. They look at him and they assume he's OK, because he's spastic and he talks too much, and he supposes that that equals happiness in the parallel universe that everyone but him seems to occupy. Even Scott, who's known him for-fucking-ever, always takes Stiles's word for it when he says he's fine. Scott believes him, not because he's unobservant or he doesn't really care, but because he genuinely can't imagine Stiles lying to him. Stiles loves him for it, but it does nothing to make him feel better. If anything, it lays a blanket of guilt over everything else, suffocating and thick.

Stiles's dad, on the other hand, can tell when he's lying, which is one of the reasons that he never asks Stiles if he's OK anymore. Stiles appreciates it, because he's tired of seeing that disappointed, resigned look his dad gets when he avoids the truth, talks around it until he's all tangled up in words and guilt and they can both pretend they don't remember what the question was in the first place. His dad gives him that look often enough anyway, and it makes the guilt blanket feel like it's made of lead, like Stiles can never escape it. He wants to talk to his dad, he does, but the words won't come. For once, he doesn't know how to start a conversation.

Derek doesn't care if Stiles is OK or not; he just makes demands, and threatens and snarls, and ignores the too-fast beat of Stiles's heart, even though Stiles knows he can hear it. He knows Derek can smell the ever-present terror and self-loathing on him, too, but he doesn't comment, never softens his steely gaze even a fraction, never asks if Stiles is OK. Stiles wonders, sometimes, if a Derek who hadn't been burned and betrayed and abandoned would be the kind of guy who asked, but he never lets that thought linger for too long. He learned long ago that you can't change the past, no matter how hard you wish you could.

Which is why Stiles doesn't see this coming. It's after the most disastrous lacrosse game; he'd gotten to play first line, because Coach had been impressed with what he'd seen last season (his dad had called him a hero; Stiles didn't believe him, but it felt nice all the same), and for a while, it had gone OK. Then he'd fumbled a ball. And another. And another. Jackson had sneered at him as he ran past, wolf-fast and nimble, and then Scott had been there, saving the day with his super powers. Stiles had looked up into the stands and seen his dad wince right before some guy slammed into Stiles from behind. It sure as hell didn’t get any better after that.

Normally, Stiles being a klutz wouldn't warrant his almost having a panic attack (thank God), but it's dark, and his ribs ache (fists beating into them, too powerful for him to defend himself), and the cold air smells like prom night and blood on grass, and Stiles can almost hear Peter purring in his ear as he hurries off the field, can almost feel rough hunter hands dragging him away, making him an unwilling messenger, driving home how utterly useless he is.

Breathe, he tells himself. Slowly. In. And out. He knows the drill, knows how to handle it, but the panic attack is too close for comfort, and he has to get away from everyone. Just for a minute.

He doesn't hear Derek approach (of course not), but suddenly he's there, in Stiles's space, and Stiles can't take any of his shit tonight, he just can't.

In. And out.

“Go away,” he groans, his voice way too breathy and strained. Weak, he thinks. It doesn't help at all.

“No,” Derek says, and the anger that answer provokes is almost enough to make Stiles forget all about panic attacks and werewolf strength and just punch him in the face. That is, until a pair of arms is around him, squeezing him gently, a warm (really warm), muscled chest pressed against his back. The zipper of Derek's leather jacket catches against Stiles's lacrosse jersey, probably tearing it a little bit, but he hardly notices, because Derek is breathing in his ear. Slow, even breaths that Stiles latches on to before he can even think about it. In, and out. In, and out. “Breathe,” Derek tells him, and his voice is calm, like he knows exactly what he's doing.

The cold creeps up around Stiles's ankles, nibbling at his exposed calves, but he doesn't move, listening to Derek's breathing and trying to relax. He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes until they snap open at the sound of Derek's voice.

“I know you're just gonna lie, so I'm not gonna ask if you're OK,” he says, his breath puffing against Stiles's ear. Stiles realizes he's leaned his head back against Derek's shoulder and he quickly straightens it up. Derek's arms fall away, and the air seems twice as cold when it rushes to fill the space. Stiles turns to look at Derek, having no idea what to say for once, and Derek gives him an appraising look before he nods. “Don't do anything stupid,” Derek says, and then he's leaving, his footfalls silent in the dewy grass.

“Hey,” Stiles finally manages. Derek stops, but he doesn't turn, for which Stiles is inexplicably grateful. “Thanks,” he says, swallowing.

It takes a second, but then Derek replies.

“Any time.”

The dew has soaked through Stiles's socks by the time he makes his legs carry him back to the field. He still feels the ghost of Derek's arms around his chest.


End file.
